Dance of the Dutch
by Ellie Martineau
Summary: Part II of my "Origins" series: How Dutchy got his start.


"Ya lousy cow, why ain't ya listenin' ta me?" The Italian boy whined as he smacked his friend upside the head to get his attention.  
  
"Wha...? Uh…oh, sorry Race, what was ya ramblin' about?"   
  
"Ugh…nevamind, Cowboy, f'get it." Race replied, playfully punching Jack in the arm. "God it's cold. What's gotcha so distracted, anyways?" He looked in the direction of the iced-over pond, which Jack had been watching intently for nearly five minutes now.   
  
"Huh?" Jack asked, still not paying any attention.  
  
It was then that Race saw them. The older boy about their age, teaching who was obviously his younger brother how to ice skate.   
  
"Wow…" Race mused as he looked on. "Dat's got ta be tha most amazin' t'ing I eva seen!"  
  
"Wheah's he from? Ain't nobody in New Yawk skate like dat…he gotta be from Ice-land a'somethin'." Jack said, still gawking at the boy, who was demonstrating several perfectly executed twists, turns, and tumbling tricks on his ice skates and encouraging the young boy, who was about eight, to try them.  
  
Some, the boy did with ease; others twisted his body into contortions and he would tumble to the ice below. Finally, after the young boy experienced several hard tumbles, the older of the boys uttered something in another language, something neither Jack nor Race could understand. Finally the two boys abandoned their attempts.  
  
"I told ya they was from somewheahs else." Jack muttered, standing up to get on with selling his papers.  
  
"I neva' said dey wasn't." Race replied defensively.   
  
"Yeah, well, ya neva' agree wit' me anyways."  
  
Race slugged his friend. "I'll soak ya."  
  
Jack laughed as he turned the corner, making his way out of Central Park. Suddenly Jack felt a tap on his shoulder.  
  
"Pardon, Mynheer. Hallo." The voice said as Jack whipped around. He instantly recognized the youth as the boy who was skating on the pond, as he still had a tight grip on the laces of his skates. The boy was carrying his brother, who had fallen asleep, over his back.   
  
"Uh…yeah. Whaddaya need?" Jack asked, wondering if the boy understood a word he was saying. Most immigrants didn't speak a word of English.  
  
"Rychie van Mounen, eh…dis ish my brother Lambert." The boy said in slow, shaky English, holding out a hand for Jack to shake.  
  
"Jack Kelly, uh…dis eesh my friend Racetrack Higgins." He replied, shaking Rychie's hand and getting a kick out of mocking the poor immigrant.  
  
Rychie took a deep breath. "Apologies, Mynheer Kelly, Mynheer Higgins. I shpeak few eenglish." He smiled awkwardly, running the fingers of his one open hand through a mop of white-blonde hair; his lazy blue eyes staring curiously at Jack through wire-rimmed spectacles. "We…we need goot place to shleep…you know a place?"  
  
Jack almost said no, but changed his mind about turning the boy away. The other newsies had done it for him; it was his turn to do it for someone else. "Uh…yeah. You can stay wid me an' the udda newsies at a Lodgin' House. It ain't gonna cost ya much, an' ya can stay fer free till ya make some money."  
  
Rychie stared blankly at Jack, not really understanding what he had said. Race saw the confused look on his face and replied, "Just come wit' us, we know a decent place."  
  
Rychie nodded gratefully at the two boys.   
  
After showing Rychie and Lambert their new bunks and signing them in for the night, Jack and   
  
Race took them to Tibby's, where the rest of the newsies were meeting for dinner.  
  
Later, the newsies were trying to find a nickname for the boy, as they had already found one for his brother: Tumbler. Jack and Race explained the way the little boy fell and tumbled on the ice, and was thus named after his futile attempts to skate like his brother.   
  
Jack saw Specs walk in the door as the newsies were discussing nicknames. Heya, Specs!" Jack shouted and signaled the young man to sit next to him. Specs noticed the new boy and introduced himself, sticking his hand out to be shaken by the new kid.   
  
"Hi. I'm Specs. You must be new."  
  
The blonde boy nodded. "Yes, Mynheer Specs. My name ish Rychie van Mounen. Dis, dis ish my brudder Lambert."  
  
Specs instantly recognized the boy's heritage to be Dutch. His mother's mother had come over from Holland, and so he knew the language well.  
  
"So where are you from in Holland?" Specs asked in the boy's language.  
  
"Broek." The boy replied, surprise evident in his facial expression.   
  
"Do you have any family there?" Specs pried even more, silently thanking his grandmother for teaching him so much of her language.  
  
"Only my sister, Katrinka, who was buried a year ago after a fever."  
  
"W-wait, Specs. Wha'd you jis' say ta him?" Skittery interrupted.  
  
"I just asked him where he was from in Holland." Specs answered. "He said he was from Broek. Remember, my grandmother is from Holland."  
  
"So he's Dutch?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess." Specs sighed.   
  
Rychie raised a hand. "No, no, I no likes be call Tutch—dat ish no goot. I bees a Hollander."  
  
The group laughed. "Whateva you say, Dutchy." 


End file.
